by Jonas Ward
Reo’s voice rocketed down: “All right, amigo. Give us some cover if you can.”
“I’ll see you on the Pitchfork,” Buchanan answered. “Good luck.”
“Yeah. So long, you big bastard!”
Marinda’s voice came down, less loud but just as strong. “Vaya con Dios, Buchanan.”
“Here we go!” Reo roared.
Buchanan didn’t watch them. He kept his attention on the end of the cliff. He heard the two horses go clattering down toward the desert. When a rifle started talking down at the end of the cliff, Buchanan opened up with a savage fire, blasting into the Indian’s telltale puff of gunsmoke, raking the rocks with a fury of bullets. It shut the Indian off. Buchanan levered and fired, levered and fired. When his ammunition ran dry, he yanked out his pistol and emptied that as well.
Quickly thumbing cartridges into his guns, he snapped a glance across the desert. Reo and Marinda were well out on the flats, riding hell for leather. The lone Indian out there was galloping toward them. Reo’s horse sat back on its haunches, throwing a spume of dust forward; Reo’s gun barked three or four times, and the Indian slumped on his horse. Then Reo and the girl went on.
Guns were blasting in harsh signals again, but Reo and Marinda were beyond bullet range. Buchanan drove another bullet into the rocks down there. There were at least two Apaches there, if more hadn’t come up.
Then the silence settled down. The close heat made his skin crawl with sweat. The metal lock plate of the rifle began to sear his palm. Time slowed, and he felt as lonely as he’d ever been. Out on the flats a buzzard circled low over the dead Indians. Thirst built up in Buchanan’s throat, and to keep the saliva going he popped a pebble in his mouth and worked it around with his tongue. Coated with dirt and sweat, he lay in the direct rays of the desert sun. His lids were gritty; his eyes turned raw. He watched the buzzard’s slow, evasive descent. Four other birds joined it in the air. Gradually they settled on one of the dead men, fighting among themselves for the prime delicacy, the eyes. There was a beating of black wings and a brief, squawking dispute. One of the buzzards flapped over to the nearby corpse. Their ugly necks bent down.
A rifle shot splashed against the talus slide. Buchanan leaned back, resigned and fatalistic. The shot startled the buzzards into the air, but they settled down again slowly to their meal.
Buchanan’s ears picked up the faint thudding of hoof beats, moving at a trot. They faded quickly, leaving silence.
It could mean any number of things. There was only one way to find out for sure. Buchanan put his hat on his rifle and lifted it slowly in the air. When that drew no fire, he pulled the hat down and put it on, and stood up slowly, rifle ready.
Nothing stirred. Buchanan took a firmer grip on the rifle and stepped boldly into the open.
No reaction. Well, then, maybe they’d decided to surprise him by circling around the other side of the mesa. That would take them a little time. Time enough, maybe, for Buchanan to get out onto the flats far enough to hold them at bay with his rifle. It was for certain he’d have a better chance out there than trapped here in the rocks. He’d be moving all the time toward safety—maybe twenty miles of desert to cross before he hit the Pitchfork line, but a man could do that. He was one rifleman against God-knew-how-many Indians, but out on the open desert they’d make fine targets if they came within range. And it wasn’t for nothing that it had been said of Tom Buchanan, You can tell what Buchanan aims at by what he hits.
Anyhow, it was the best gamble he had. Anything was better than roasting immobile in these bake-oven rocks. At least there was freedom in being in motion, and to Buchanan that kind of freedom was the sweetest taste of all.
He started walking briskly toward the northwest, toward Pitchfork.
The buzzards circled resentfully into the air as his path brought him close to them. They hovered only a few feet overhead, wings beating, unblinking. When he passed, they descended to finish. He didn’t glance at the dead Indians. He didn’t want to see their vacant eye sockets and torn flesh. His boots stirred little whorls of dust; his spurs dragged the ground.
He covered a hundred yards, then two hundred; and a gunshot cracked across the desert.
He wheeled, searching, bringing up the rifle. A shot came again; he felt it fan by his cheek. He saw the little puff of rising smoke at the far end of the great rock monument.
He dropped belly-flat to make a smaller target and laid his cheek along the hot rifle stock. An Indian rode out into the open, maybe four hundred yards from where Buchanan lay; and a second Indian’s rifle fired steadily from the rocks, beating up the dust, making spouts and creases in the earth all around Buchanan.
The nearest cover was a clump of catclaw fifty feet away, not big enough to conceal a gopher. But he had to act. You couldn’t just lie there and wait for a chance bullet to finish you.
A bullet thumped into the earth near enough to shake it. Buchanan flinched.
The horseback Indian shook his fisted rifle overhead and kneed his horse forward at a canter. Across the silent air Buchanan faintly heard his whoops.
The Apache was attacking to count coup for his fallen comrades.
Buchanan breeched a shell and laid his eyes to the sights, holding his breath back in his chest. The Apache was firing as he rode, but there was only chance danger from those one-handed shots; and now the Indian was in his companion’s line-of-fire, and there was no more shooting from the rocks.
Buchanan’s finger curled around the trigger, and he felt the pound of his heart in his chest. He lay sprawled in the open, every minute a better target for the charging rider. The Apache was laid flat down on his horse with only one leg and arm showing—good horsemanship for an Apache. His one-handed shooting was even more erratic as he took cover with his face half-buried in the withers. Buchanan lowered his eye to the rear tang sight. If he didn’t get a better shot soon, he would have to down the horse and shoot the Indian falling free—if the Indian didn’t drop behind the horse for cover.
He recognized the Apache then by his size. It was the brute Matesa. We will fight soon, Matesa had said. To fight Matesa is to die.
That was why Matesa was coming at him in the open. It was a personal thing, man to man.
It was then, ready to fire, when Buchanan felt a hot, stinging flash in the face and found himself instantly blinded. Reaction closed his hand; the rifle went off, charging his shoulder.
One of Matesa’s wild bullets had spewed sand in his eyes.
Buchanan clawed at his face. The grit was like fire in his eyes, and he could see nothing but a blood-red haze. He heard the ram of hoofs and Matesa’s excited cry of triumph, the slam of the rifle, the slap of the bullet into the ground near enough to spray his cheek.
Buchanan rolled over violently, blinking, feeling the tears wet his cheeks. His pulse pounded louder than the on-rushing hoofs. He scraped fingers across his eyes, hazy vision returned slowly to his right eye. He held it open long enough to see painfully through the cloud.
Matesa was almost on top of him.
There was no time to aim. Buchanan rammed the butt stock against the ground, barrel pointing upward, and pulled trigger with one hand, his other hand shoving the ground to roll him aside from the trampling, pointed hoofs.
His rifle roared. Buchanan rolled over on his back, blinking fast. He saw the horse rush past a foot away, a gray blur of movement; he saw the slug drive Matesa back, punching a great hole in his face, and saw Matesa’s head rock back, the rifle flying from dead fingers to skitter across the desert.
Matesa fell off the back of the running horse with a crunch of sound and slid along the ground. He came to rest in an awkward, crushed position.
Buchanan rubbed his eyes, squinted, blinked, and made faces. The horse wheeled wearily and came to a stand, as it must have been trained to do.
Back in the rocks the last Apache’s rifle opened up in a fury. Buchanan dug sand out of his eyes, uttered a curse, and fired not very accurately at the rocks
. It shut the Indian up for a moment. Buchanan sprinted toward the standing horse. It dodged away from him suspiciously. He spoke soothing words and got a flying grip on the single trailing rein. The horse almost yanked it out of his fist. He still couldn’t see as well as he would have wanted. He hauled the horse’s head down and clambered asaddle. The Indian in the rocks started shooting again. Buchanan wheeled the Indian pony around, laid himself low, and spurred it to a gallop. Within half a minute he was beyond the effect of the Apache’s distant rifle.
He rode past the Indian Johnny Reo had shot and glanced down as he whipped by. Shock registered on Buchanan’s face. The dead warrior was Cuchillo, Sentos’ only remaining son. When Sentos discovered that, he’d tear all Arizona apart to find Buchanan and Reo.
Buchanan glanced back. Gunshot echoes carried a long way across this kind of country, and he half expected to see the huge dust cloud of an advancing war party back toward the hills from which he had come during the night. But Sentos and the main bunch had probably guessed Buchanan would go south during the night. It would take a little while for the Apaches to come north.
A little while; not very long. That lone Indian back there was already making dust, back toward the hills to round up Sentos and the others.
Buchanan turned forward and gigged the horse up. Red-eyed and saddle-weary, he rode toward Pitchfork under the blazing sun, and thought vaguely of the dreams of peaceful fishing that had brought him into this country only a few days ago. Somehow it all seemed a little unfair. A man couldn’t even find a little peace and quiet.
A rider was galloping toward him from up ahead. Buchanan kept up his pace, but brought his rifle around. His eyes were still not altogether clear; it was some time before he recognized the horseman.
It was Johnny Reo. Reo rode up with a broad grin of relief. He lied cheerfully, “I knew you wouldn’t have no trouble at all. Hell, there wasn’t more than six Indians to fight.”
“Where’s Marinda?”
“I left her up ahead. Figured I’d better come back and see if you needed burying or anything.”
Reo’s irreverent grin was a white slash across his weather-burned face. He swept off his hat to wipe his face in the crook of his sleeve. The bright red hair stood up like a defiant guidon.
Buchanan said, “I told you a long time ago you were a better man than you gave yourself credit for.”
“Naw,” said Reo. “I only came back to see if you’d left any Indians for me to kill.”
They rode north together. Inside fifteen minutes they picked up Marinda along the trail; she fell in with them, showing Buchanan her happy smile. Her nose wrinkled when she laughed; it was clear how glad she was to see him alive.
In an hour they were still south of the Pitchfork boundary, but a crowd of Pitchfork riders were drumming toward them. Johnny Reo grinned. “Sizable welcoming committee there. Can’t say I ain’t glad to see them, either.”
“They may not be too glad to see us once they find out what’s after us,” Buchanan observed. He had no idea how accurate the first half of his statement was; but he found out soon enough.
Throwing up a stinging pall of dust, the Pitchfork crew skidded to a halt, milling around the three riders. There was a lot of calling back and forth. Race Koenig jumped off his horse, lifted Marinda down in his arms, and held her close to him, crooning to her in a voice that mixed disbelief with joy. Buchanan watched them and thought that the bespectacled foreman was one very lucky man indeed. In fact, Buchanan thought...
He didn’t have time to finish the thought. Half a dozen men ringed him, and he suddenly realized they all had their guns drawn.
“Now what?” he said to himself. He spoke to the nearest man in an amiable voice: “Say, now, friend, what’s the gun for?”
“Sit back and breathe through your nose, pilgrim,” the cowhand snarled.
“Now, wait a minute,” Buchanan said. “I can take a joke as well as the next man, but right now I’m kind of tired and beat up and I don’t know as I—”
“Shut up,” the cowhand snapped.
Race Koenig looked up from his embrace with the girl. He placed her gently to one side and spoke in a flat voice; his eyes had gone cold and hard.
“Bringing Marinda back won’t buy you a pardon, Buchanan. If I had my way, I’d chip you down an inch at a time, but the boys decided we’d better turn you over to the law. You’re gonna get your neck stretched nice and legal.”
Johnny Reo snapped at a rider drifting around, “Can’t you hold that damn horse still?” Reo turned his angry attention to Koenig. “What’s this all about, mister?”
“Your friend here shot Mike Warrenrode dead last night,” said Koenig.
Buchanan felt the cold pressure of a gun in his ribs.
Fifteen
“Move a muscle,” breathed the rider behind Buchanan, “and you’ll never see tomorrow.”
Marinda stared at Race Koenig. “My father—?”
“I’m sorry, honey,” Koenig said. He wrapped one arm around her. “You’ve been through enough, God knows, without this.”
“But ...” she said; she cleared her throat and started again. “But you said Buchanan shot him.”
“That’s right. He did.”
“Last night? At the ranch?”
Koenig nodded. His bleak eyes peered through the dusty glasses at Buchanan, who sat at ease in his saddle with the attitude of a man who had just felt the weight of the last straw that was about to break his back.
Marinda said, “It wasn’t Buchanan who did it, Race. I’ve been with him every minute of the time since yesterday afternoon, and we haven’t been within forty miles of the Pitchfork.”
She said it in a strong, clear voice, and nobody missed hearing her.
Johnny Reo said, “I’ll second what the lady said. We had our hands pretty full last night, and it’s for damn sure Buchanan wasn’t anyplace around here.”
Race Koenig took off his hat and scratched his head. Buchanan felt the gun muzzle recede from his back. He reached around and rubbed the place where the steel had pushed him. His glance was angry, tired, impatient, and intolerant; he said to Koenig, “A man could get in a pack of trouble jumping to conclusions the way you do. If I wasn’t a mite tired, I might think about cracking a few teeth among the congregation hereabouts.”
Koenig was still scratching his head, mostly in embarrassment. “I reckon we made a mistake.”
“I’ll reckon you did,” Johnny Reo said.
“I reckon we kind of owe you an apology, Buchanan.”
Buchanan said, “I’d settle for two shots of whiskey, a good meal, and twenty-four hours sleep. But I’ll have to take a rain check on the sleep. We’re likely to have some Indians for supper.”
All in a tight-riding bunch they swept into the Pitchfork yard and dismounted. Steve Quick, in the ranch house door, stiffened when he recognized Buchanan. “You’re not dead.”
“If I am,” Buchanan said, “somebody forgot to bury me.”
Koenig stepped past him and walked up to Quick, who backed up against the wall, his eyes growing wide. Koenig said grimly, “I’ll just take your gun, Steve.”
“What the hell for?”
“I ain’t just exactly sure,” Koenig said. “But it’s for certain you lied out of both sides of your mouth last night. Buchanan didn’t kill the old man. Wasn’t within forty miles of this place last night.”
Steve Quick summoned his bravado. “Just who the hell says he wasn’t?”
“I do.” Marinda stepped quietly forward out of the crowd.
Quick hadn’t even seen her before; she’d been concealed by the crowd and the cloud of dust. Quick’s face went three shades paler, and he seemed about to faint.
Antonia appeared in the doorway. She just stood there and stared at Marinda and Buchanan as if she didn’t really believe they were alive.
Race Koenig plucked Quick’s gun from its holster and stepped back. Quick seemed dazed; he didn’t even appear to realize that
Koenig had taken his gun away. Quick began to clear his throat in spasms.
Koenig said, “Couple of you boys take him inside and tie him up. Something damned funny going on around here, and we’ll have to be gettin’ to the bottom of it. But we haven’t got time for that right now. Boat, skinny over to the bunkhouse and grab up every gun and cartridge you can find. We’ll hole ourselves up in the ranch house. Old Mike built it like a fort against Indians, and I reckon it’ll still serve the purpose.”
Buchanan said, “Sentos isn’t after you or your crew. He’s after us, Johnny and me. Give us a brace of fresh horses.”
“What for?”
“To outrun those Indians,” Buchanan said, “and maybe draw them off you while we’re at it.”
Reo gave him a disgusted look but kept his mouth shut. Marinda said flatly, “No. Don’t let them do it, Race.”
“’Course I won’t,” Koenig said. “Buchanan, I don’t know how you got Marinda away and I don’t expect I ever will know all of it. But whatever you did, it took more guts than I’ve ever seen or heard of. If Mike Warrenrode was alive, he’d back you with every gun he had, and I can’t do no different. Pitchfork stands by its own. You two have got protection whether you want it or not.”
“I for one,” remarked Johnny Reo, “don’t aim to argue about that. Buchanan, if you wasn’t such a goddamn stupid hero, you’d know when to quit taking chances.”
Buchanan said, “Johnny, I can’t ask any other man alive to do my fighting for me and I don’t think you can either if you stop a minute and think about it.”
“I do my own fightin’,” Reo said hotly, “which you know damn well.”
There was a strange little sound that came out of Antonia’s throat. Everyone looked at her. She was standing on the top step, a foot or two above the others, and she was looking out past the yard. Her mouth was open.
